


Wildfire

by hhavenh



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Depression, Revelations, War, no explicit spoilers, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8764663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhavenh/pseuds/hhavenh
Summary: When Suzukaze comes home from Cheve he is not the same. His eyes are dead. His face without color. He is thin. He is brittle, is silent and pale as bone, and sits all day in their room as if it will be his tomb. He is a corpse on two legs, one that's forgotten how to smile.Their father has too, and Yamakaji just doesn't know how to make them remember.





	

Suzukaze has not spoken in nineteen days.

There is silence in his reddened eyes, quiet tension in his curled fingers. Yamakaji sits with him every day before lessons and every night before bed, taking identical hands in his own and pulling the fingers straight. He doesn’t let them go back tight but folds their hands together so Suzukaze cannot fist them again until dawn lights the sky.

His brother has hardly left their room since Hoshido lost a king.

He doesn’t help Yamakaji in the morning, gathering food and hot water for Father now a solitary task. He hasn’t seen the white lanterns that light the night sky all the way from Shirasagi Castle. He doesn’t feel the grief that settles across Igasato, as suffocating and heavy as layered wool.

Suzukaze sits in his own despair, a weight that Yamakaji would do anything to share.

To see him eat is rare. If Yamakaji begs him, if their father commands him, and even then Suzukaze barely does. Rice lingers in his bowl until the vessel is returned to the kitchen. He drinks only when reminded. No letters are practiced, scrolls left untouched. His wooden kunai have not seen exercise since before he left for Cheve, the edges still so far from scratched and dull.

He stopped crying three days ago, but Yamakaji wishes he would start again. That he would do anything but shudder so silently beside him at night, eyes red and dry and aching all over again by morning.

Suzukaze is thin. His wrists are like pale bamboo, slim but with none of the same strength. He can’t push Yamakaji away when visited between lessons, forced to let him near, to let arms close around him in desperate love.

Yamakaji would love him regardless, but he knows he has to now.

He knows that no one else will.

\---

Yamakaji and his brother have never known a mother, but the woman that tells them she might one day be theirs has not visited Father in nearly so long as Suzukaze has been silent. Neither have their tutors come to ensure that the heirs of Igasato are capable of written word. Even the cook appears so briefly. And then only to leave enough rice and fish to last a few days.

The long retired shinobi that used to come once a week for laundry haven't in too long for Yamakaji to actually know. Father has barely anything unstained when he does notice, shame twisting in Yamakaji's chest to have not been more aware. He presses Suzukaze into service, the whole night spent washing every bit of fabric in the house as best they know how.

Father doesn't notice, but Yamakaji didn't expect he would.

They used to have dinner every night in his den. A large plate shared between the three of them, filled with sticky rice and long strips of poached fish. The largest pieces were always left for Father, Yamakaji and his brother having mock battle with chopsticks over the rest. Father would mutter about his shinobi or ask after their lessons, a quiet amusement in his face when Yamakaji would complain about too much time spent on letters and scrolls. Suzukaze would argue the opposite, disagreement growing hot and high between. Father would eventually reach, the strong width of his palms over their hair calming the temper between them.

He is never home for dinner now, more than a month having passed since the last time they all ate together. Yamakaji will leave rice in Father’s room when the sun begins to set, an empty bowl usually beside his pillow when Yamakaji comes to wake him the next morn. Sometimes it is obvious he only just got to bed, his sandals still damp with midnight dew, his battle gauntlets dropped to the floor with blood still staining the edge. Yamakaji will wash them with sand and water until the redness is gone, but he's not sure if Father even has the energy to care.

He is not the only one so changed after Cheve. The dojo masters are never the same now, lessons not held so constantly as they had been before. None of their class bother to come see either of them after lessons. Yamakaji walks home from the dojo alone, bruised and scratched from more than just practice. He has no more friends, the last made to bleed when she asked why he still claimed Suzukaze as his brother.

No one understands, this only the most recent betrayal. They don't see how Suzukaze is so lesser, how he doesn't smile or even care to play. He and Yamakaji used to wrestle and spar through so much of the day, laughter echoing the halls, growing sharp with delight when Father would set aside his duties and take each of them under an arm. He'd roar like the most fearsome beast and carry them outside as if they were no heavier than a sack of rice, the strength of Saizou the Fourth a thing of legend.

They would fell him with skills born of the dojo, bearing him down to the mountain grass and claiming victory for all to hear. Father had always laughed, had _smiled_ , so bright and wide and proud.

He hasn’t laughed in so long. In weeks, maybe more. Hasn’t smiled either, the lines of his face so pronounced now. Scars of burden and work, of things that Yamakaji just doesn’t know how to make better.

\---

It isn't a relief when Suzukaze finally speaks.

The sun set hours ago, the land now swathed in a moonless shadow. No candles are lit, no way for Yamakaji to tell if Suzukaze kneels beside him in pain or distress. The grip of his hand is tight enough to convey either.

But then he whispers, so low and broken that Yamakaji almost does not hear, “I have to tell her."

Yamakaji can barely see the shape of his brother in the darkness, but he does not need to. He does not even need to ask what Suzukaze must tell, or to who. "...I'll skip lessons tomorrow," he promises, fingers growing numb in Suzukaze's grasp, "and we'll try-."

" _Yama_ ," his brother begs, a trembled plead. His head bows, and it is not in Yamakaji to silently weather the shudders that replace the tears Suzukaze can no longer shed.

So instead blankets are thrown back and sandals tied tight, the winds brisk as Yamakaji and his brother step beyond their father's land.

\---

They are of Igasato, are Saizou in blood if not yet name. To sneak down the mountain and within the castle is an old game, one Yamakaji can’t even enjoy. There is no pride bursting within him to avoid the sight of guards, to exist silent and unknown within Shirasagi's high walls.

Often he and Suzukaze have only stalked their father on business or listened to gossip pass between servants. This trek is nothing so harmless, perhaps even something Father would forbid if he knew. It's better they didn't ask, that they didn't even dare to tread past his room lest he wake and wonder. Yamakaji hates the necessity, but he hates his brother's silence worse.

The night is still heavy and cold when they find the queen, but now not so dark. She sits in a room open to the moonlit sky, a midnight garden blooming at her feet. Pale flowers and vines shine dully in the bare light. They cling to the walls, to the beams that hold the bundled shutters, existing in wait of the rising sun.

The queen glows in the luminance of the moon, her flesh sculpted from marble and lilies.  A pale statue swallowed in grey silk. Her eyes are as dark as the black fall of her hair, so deep and soft that Yamakaji cannot bear to meet them. Not even when a hand clutches at his own as Suzukaze forces them further within, until they are bathed in the same moonlight as the queen.

Yamakaji does not look. Will not see the cold fury that must be twisting the smooth curves of her face.

They shouldn’t be here, they should never have even _dared._ They are of Igasato, are their father’s sons, but what does that matter now? What can the lineage of Saizou even mean to the Hoshidan throne anymore, after they have been so shamed?

But shamed or not, the queen does not speak aloud the anger she must know at the sight of them. "Children," she murmurs, the softness of her words giving Yamakaji the courage to look up. "What are you doing here so late?"

Yamakaji knows, but he cannot say. He's not even sure how to give voice to his brother's guilt, to the unending penance that has leeched his health and smile.

"I saw the soldiers," Suzukaze finally breathes.

But the queen doesn't understand, her eyes creased and dull, "The soldiers?"

"I saw them, I saw so _many,"_ he admits, the misery that is his life wetting his cheeks. Yamakaji isn't even relieved, his own eyes burning too. He can't cry though. Not now, not when he has to be strong, when he has to be like Father. Yamakaji can't possibly fall apart when his brother already is. "I didn't-, I-I didn't know what it meant, I didn't know they w-would attack us, I didn't know they-, that they would take-." Suzukaze's words break, but the queen only stares, even at Yamakaji,  not that he understands why.

He has done no wrong, not like his brother.

His poor miserable brother that barely eats, that is lesser each day. His brother that has shamed their father, that has brought disgrace upon their very blood. So desperately does Yamakaji wish that this disgrace was his own. That he carried the blame, the _fault_ , for Hoshido's lost king. He would take that burden if only so his brother didn't buckle under the weight, so that Father didn't look at Suzukaze with such unhappy eyes.

The same eyes the queen has now, and Yamakaji cannot stand this another moment. He clutches the hand in his own and asks for what his brother can't, "Will you forgive him?"

There is stillness in the air, in the wide understanding of her eyes. "Dear child," the queen breathes, her words like a midnight sigh, like Hoshido's grief given life in the softness of her voice. Her arm reaches, so pale and slim. Nothing like their father's broad strength, but nothing either like Suzukaze's brittle thinness.

Suzukaze flinches when the queen presses fingers against his wet cheek but she doesn't let him pull away, reaching with her other hand.

"Sweet boy," she whispers, drawing him close, Yamakaji forced to follow when his brother's fingers clench desperately tighter, "there is nothing to forgive."

\---

Suzukaze is again silent, not a single word between them since Shirasagi. Even forgiven, that boon begged of the queen until she relented, until her eyes had been as bright and desperate as Yamakaji and his brother's, even then there is little different. Father is still so busy, a constant tightness to his jaw. He dresses and bathes and eats so swiftly, the briefest word given to either of them. Sometimes he is gone for days at a time, and when home he and his shinobi speak constantly of war, of enemies felled and lands lost.

Yamakaji doesn't go to the dojo anymore. There really isn't a reason to when he learns nothing that his father has not already taught. He can be as alone at home as he is there, so he does not bother. If Father knows he has not made mention, but maybe that is only because Yamakaji does not slack in his practice.

Out in the sun, beneath the forest canopy, even across the smooth floors of Father's den, Yamakaji does little but work towards what is expected of him. His wooden kunai are already too light, the maneuvers taught by dojo masters so routine, so _boring_ , that Yamakaji barely has the patience for them. Sometimes be doesn't even bother to try and focus, but lays on the grass behind the house and watches the sky. Clouds will billow even higher than Igasato, circling the far-off peak of the mountain. They grow so broad and defined, as if the fallen king yet lives at that height, frowning down from the sky. Maybe he is displeased with Hoshido, with Igasato.

Maybe even with Suzukaze.

A terrible thought, but Yamakaji doesn't know how to make it go away. Doesn't even know what he could do to help his brother appease the king's spirit. There are no shamans on the mountain, likely not even any in Shirasagi. None that Yamakaji would have any idea how to find at least, or that would even care to listen to the pleas of a boy with shamed blood.

The wind steals Yamakaji’s sigh, but not the rasp of the back screen sliding open. Father would not be home so early, but Yamakaji is still surprised to see his brother when he tips his head back.

Suzukaze is no healthier in sunlight than he is indoors. His face is gaunt beneath the shadow of his bangs, wrists ever thinner where they emerge past the sleeves of his tunic. He does not pause when he moves past Yamakaji, not until his ankle is grabbed. He twists away before Yamakaji can wrestle him to the ground, brows down and displeased, “ _Don’t_.”

Yamakaji frowns, but his brother is already striding towards the tall grass that borders the forest, “Where are you going?”

“…Away.”

“Away where?” Suzukaze doesn’t say, so Yamakaji pushes to his feet and steps after, “Did father leave you an errand?”

His brother stops before he reaches the tall grass, fingers curling into his palms, “Don’t follow me.”

If Yamakaji had his own errand, or the attention to give towards practice, he might be less inclined to ignore his brother. It’s just so strange to see Suzukaze in the sun though, so much so that he is almost a wraith in daylight. A spirit that didn’t know well enough to wait for night. "Why not? Are you going to train?" Yamakaji has no secrets from his brother, nothing he would not tell him if asked. That Suzukaze honestly expects to keep something from him is-, is not anything that Yamakaji knows how to handle. Red dissatisfaction curls in his chest the longer Suzukaze refuses to speak, his silence weighing no different than a betrayal. "Where are you going?”

Suzukaze crosses his arms and refuses to meet Yamakaji's eyes, that suspicious all itself. He’s still silent, and Yamakaji can’t help how furious heat climbs his cheeks, hands fisting against his sides, “I’ll just follow, you can’t stop me!”

“I can!” Suzukaze finally snaps back, but he must know that’s a lie. He’s so thin, so wane. His clothes don’t even fit anymore, the obi twisted three times around his waist instead of the usual two. Even angry as he is now -color so barely bleeding into his cheeks- he doesn’t stand a chance of stopping Yamakaji for a single moment.

He has to know that. Must, with how his shoulders grow hunched, fingers twisting tight in the ends of his sleeves. "You shouldn't follow me." He's so quiet again, words near lost to the rasp of tall grass waving in the wind.

But Yamakaji can't manage that same quiet, not when there is still such heat in him, _furious_ heat that he just doesn't know how to temper. "Why?"

"Father wouldn't let you."

"Would he let you?" Yamakaji demands, closing the distance. "Does he even know what you're doing?" This isn't like Shirasagi, that kept from Father if only not to burden him with Suzukaze's unending guilt. This is nothing the same, nothing Yamakaji understands, nothing his brother will even tell him. Suzukaze has never been like this. Never been so unwilling to help Yamakaji know his thoughts, to make plain what Yamakaji just can't _see_. "You'll have to tell me whatever I want when I'm Saizou," he barks, frustration like he's _never_ known climbing his spine.

Suzukaze's shoulders grow higher, his eyes then falling shut. "What if-," his voice breaks before he turns away, the evening sun shining from his messy hair. "Wh-what if you're not the fifth?"

For a moment Yamakaji cannot speak.

He has no words, no ability to form them even if he did. That Suzukaze would say something so-, so _impossible_ almost makes him laugh. And maybe Yamakaji actually would if he didn't know better, if he wasn't so terribly sure that Suzukaze honestly thought Father even the least likely to burden him with Igasato's weight.

Impossible. To think their father so cruel, to truly believe that there was now even the slightest possibility of so heavy a duty being his to bear-.

Yamakaji can't even pretend to humor the possibility.

He steps closer, the heat inside twisting into something soft and sad. "Father won't make you Saizou." The elders would try and stop him even if Father wanted to. Their blood is shamed, that terrible fact nothing that can change, but that doesn't mean Igasato is not still their father's burden. A burden that will one day be Yamakaji's, the mountain's judgement nothing his brother ever need worry on. Not now.

Not since Cheve.

"You don't know that," Suzukaze whispers, even though Yamakaji does. "Y- you don't know that he wouldn't, and that I wouldn't fail at that too, that I wouldn't bring ruin to the _whole_ _mountain_ -."

"Stop it!" Yamakaji demands, the fire inside again so fierce and bright, so forever ready to defend any slight against their father. Even one made by his own brother. "He wouldn't do that to you! You'll be one of his shinobi-. "

But Suzukaze makes a sound,  something wet and miserable. "I can't be a shinobi now."

Yamakaji's eyes flare wide, "What? Of course you can."

But his brother only shakes his head,  green hair whipping as if in wake of a heavy breeze,  "I'm not anything like Father."

That-. That isn't-.  It doesn't even _matter_. There is no shinobi that can match their father, never even a Saizou that could possibly have equaled the fourth’s strength. "No one is like Father," Yamakaji scoffs, as his brother has clearly forgotten that fact. "That doesn't mean-"

"It does!" Suzukaze insists, eyes already wet when he whips around, not that Yamakaji has any idea why. "If I-, if I wasn't so-." He won't say it, won't tell Yamakaji what is wrong, what makes him think that he can't be what he and Yamakaji were born to be. Even if he won't be the fifth, that doesn't mean he can’t still grow tall and strong and worthy of their blood, of their destiny to be shadowed blades of Hoshido.

"Father won't even let me be one of his shinobi," Suzukaze finally whispers, "not now, not after I-."

"He will too!" Yamakaji defends, even as a sudden dread clings to the back of his throat. He's not so sure he's right, that Father would overlook the shame, that he would even be able to. "We-, we can practice, can get better, he'll let you if-, Suzukaze!" But he's already running, not that Yamakaji knows why.

Not until he hears a sigh and turns to see Father in the doorway, a queen in his shadow.

Yamakaji cannot wonder, has not even the time to care. His brother is always so fast, so hard to keep up with, and Yamakaji must give chase at once to have any hope of keeping him in sight.

\---

His brother runs beyond the extent of Igasato, faster than Yamakaji can possibly keep pace with. It takes more than an hour to catch up, the moon round and high in the sky when Suzukaze finally let's him near. And even then it is only because he's so tired. He lies on the grass, wetness tracking from his closed eyes as he sucks in shallow breaths. Yamakaji kneels beside him, chest working hard and heavy, his every thought drowned by the pounding beat of his heart.

Suzukaze still won't talk. That night they spend huddled together in the high branches of an oak tree. Almost like they used to do with Father, burrowed beneath either of his mighty arms, warmth and security assured by that forever strength. He'd always worn an old cloak, thick and plaited in dark wool, the perfect thing to exist under in the chill of night. They were smaller then, Father's skin not so scarred, his hair not as thin. He did not smile often, but more than he does now. There didn't used to be such a constant furrow to his brow, or endless tire in his eyes.

The same tire that dogs Yamakaji’s steps as he treks after his brother in the light of a new day. His stomach hurts, his feet too. He spent more of the night shivering than he did sleeping, not that Suzukaze can be any less tired. He doesn’t act like it though, walking and walking and _walking,_ pausing only for a moment to drink when they cross a stream. There are no fish to be had, so Yamakaji has no excuse not to keep pace with his brother.

There’s nothing else he can do.

Suzukaze still refuses to explain, won’t stop long enough to truly rest their legs. He doesn’t even halt for food, not that they would find any. There are no pear bushes on this side of the mountain, and the season is too far gone for the trees to hold any nuts. The young kinshi would have taken them all already. There is nothing else as easy for the hatchlings to find as they wait for their wings to grow strong enough to soar the skies.

Yamakaji hadn’t even realized that they were already so far west until his sandals sank into the soft dirt of the innermost mating woods. His legs grow tired so quickly while pushing through the long grass. He has no energy to try and make his brother speak, not when soon he is panting with each stride. Suzukaze is no different, his chest heaving just the same the further they trek. The kinshi are all gone, but abandoned nests of grass and plucked cotton lie beneath every large tree. They spend the night in one and are still shivering when the morning dawns cold and grey.

The air changes the further west they go. 

The grass grows sparse, the trees thin and leafless. The soil is firmer and strewn with rocks and hardened clay. Suzukaze doesn’t move so quickly today, and doesn’t even try to run whenever Yamakaji grabs his arm and makes him stop.

He just stands and stares at the ground, no matter how Yamakaji begs him to speak.

Noon passes and soon evening blankets the world in golden light. With no trees it is easier to see the world beyond the mountain, where plains stretch far away to the west. They are lonely and grey in the distance, as if any color was washed away long ago by endless rains.

Suzukaze climbs a boulder and looks down on what cannot possibly be part of Hoshido. Not when the lands below are so barren. So lifeless and cold.

“This is what you wanted to see?” His brother does not answer, so Yamakaji climbs the boulder to stand beside him. The view is unchanged. Still grey. Still lonely and terrible. “Can we go home now?”

Silence. The same quiet Suzukaze has carried for so long. It is strange to hate something that is a lack, that is more nothing than something. Every moment without word stings like the barbs of a riverfish. But this pain doesn’t numb. It festers and spreads, a sickness in Yamakaji’s chest, in his throat. One that makes him burn, that makes his blood rush and drone in his ears.

Finally he reaches to take Suzukaze’s hand, and forgets to breathe when his brother doesn’t let him.

That stings worse than his silence.

Yamakaji swallows down the miserable heat climbing the back of his tongue. “What did I do?”

Suzukaze exhales in a broken sigh, his voice so wane and cracked, “You didn’t do anything-.”

“Then talk to me!” Yamakaji demands, reaching for his brother again, fingers tight and desperate around Suzukaze’s thin wrist. “Tell me why we’re here, tell me why you won’t come back home!” His voice is high and carries on the wind but Yamakaji doesn’t care. Can’t care, not when Suzukaze is staring down at the valley below as if he really means to wade out into that lifeless grey.

"I-, I just can't," Suzukaze insists, every word pitched in misery. Misery that Yamakaji can feel, the same despair clawing the back of his eyes. "I don't belong here, I-I couldn't even-."

"You are my brother!" Yamakaji shouts, loud enough that the whole mountain must hear.  "You belong nowhere but home!"

“No I don’t!” Suzukaze struggles again, vain attempts to be free of Yamakaji’s grasp. His lips pull back in a snarl, almost like he’s going to bite. “If I did no one would hate me!”

“No one hates you-.”

_“Everyone hates me!”_

His words echo louder than Yamakaji’s ever could. They must travel all the way down the valley, and to every corner of Hoshido. Surely Father must hear them back home, so sharp and piercing is every word.

Less loud is the sob that follows.

Suzukaze goes to his knees and makes a wretched sound. A sound so terrible, so high and brief. So _sad_.

Yamakaji is just so tired of sadness.

“You would really leave Hoshido?” he whispers, throat closing no matter how he tries to resist the heat surging inside. “You would leave me?”

Suzukaze shudders and lifts his other hand to rub at his eyes. “Father doesn’t want me here anymore.”

“He _does_ ,” Yamakaji insists, his grip ever tighter as he crouches beside his brother. He doesn’t care if it’s a lie. Not if Suzukaze will just stop all this and come back to Igasato. “He wouldn’t have let you leave at all if the queen hadn’t needed him for something. You know this.” They are their father’s sons, but they are still second to the throne, to the needs of Hoshido. Yamakaji has known this since before he even really understood what it was to be a shinobi, or had any idea the burden Father carries.

But Suzukaze refuses to listen. He shakes his head and even tries to pull away once more. His voice is still more sob than anything else when Yamakaji refuses to let him go. “He h-hates me.”

Yamakaji’s eyes burn worse, are wet even though he tries so hard to be strong, to be what is expected of the next Saizou. He just doesn’t know how to be strong right now though, or even if his words are a lie, “He won’t forever.”

\---

The house is empty when they return. The days of travel wash easily from their flesh, a clean tunic not something that Yamakaji has before appreciated so much.  When Father comes home he says nothing after Yamakaji apologies for not being there to warm his breakfast or gather water for his bath. His heavy brow actually grows high, and it becomes clear that he hadn’t remembered to bother with either the days Yamakaji and his brother were gone.

He's exhausted enough to be bullied into letting water be heated though, a great sigh echoing from his throat as Yamakaji pours the first warm buckets over his legs. Suzukaze doesn't come to help until the water is to Father's chest and steaming. But when he does he carries cold fish and rice, both of which Father devors immediately. Yamakaji doesn't say anything, and neither does their father, but at least he has an excuse, his lids soon drawing low as his breaths even out in the manner of sleep.

"He's always so tired," Suzukaze whispers long moments later, reaching to lay a damp rag over Father's eyes. "He was tired even before..."

He does not need to mention Cheve for Yamakaji to understand. "I heard his shinobi talking outside the dojo last I went." He's not sure if he was supposed to, or if they just hadn't cared. "They said that there isn't enough of us to do what's needed."

"What is needed?"

Yamakaji shrugs, a yawn then cracking his jaw. "Whatever it is, Father's maybe the only one doing it." He's never before considered the clan lazy, but Yamakaji isn't sure what else to think when the possible proof is before him, sleeping in a bath.

All the more reason to train harder, to be a Saizou worthy of the name.

Then Father will be able to rest, to sleep the whole night through, to actually enjoy the food he eats. He will no longer need to give attention to each attempt to claim his time, not when Yamakaji will be there to lessen the burden, his brother too. Suzukaze will never again be judged for the loss of the king, at least not out loud. None will dare even remind him of that sin once Yamakaji is as large and strong as a Saizou ought be.

That day cannot be so far off. He has almost outgrown the sandals carved for him at the beginning of summer. Every day it seems like his obi fits tighter, and that his shadow reaches further than before. Soon he will not fit his tunic or leggings, and Father will have to take him to see the old tailor that lives down the mountain.

Father will likely be busy though. Yamakaji might just take himself, and Suzukaze too if he ever starts to grow again.

But maybe he will. If he eats, if he starts to train, then there’s no reason he couldn’t be large enough to help Father, to be a full shinobi of the clan.

There is nothing else Yamakaji has the energy to hope for. Not after so long spent from the comforts of home. His head grows heavy, and he doesn’t remember falling asleep atop the wooden platform surrounding the bath. He doesn’t remember walking to bed either.

He doesn’t remember but somehow Yamakaji is in his room come morning, Suzukaze tucked in the blankets beside him.

\---

A whistle cuts through the air, sharp and familiar.

Yamakaji turns from the forest edge, his new kunai in hand. They are not metal, not yet, but the heft is greater, his hands less able to fully close over the grips. He wants to practice, to test himself against the hanging targets behind the dojo, but he isn't foolish enough to ignore such a hail.

He knows who it is, but it’s still strange to see Father waiting behind the house when Yamakaji runs back up the sloping hill that meets the forest. At least at this time of day, night only an hour away. Father waves a hand, even though it's already obvious he wants Yamakaji to come closer, "Where were you headed?"

"To train," Yamakaji holds up his kunai when he's near enough, letting one go when Father takes it and inspects the edge. "Borudo cut them for me. Wouldn't let me have anything heavier."

"Nor should he," Father says, handing the weapon back. "Too heavy too soon and you'll strain your wrist."

Yamakaji knows that, but he's sure he could handle heavier than he has now. The older students in Igasato are always told to push themselves, and Yamakaji can't figure out why he's not allowed to do the same. "He'll have to make new ones for me soon though."

Father snorts, though he isn't goaded into changing his mind, “And until then these will suffice.” Yamakaji has no time to protest before he is gestured within, Father’s heavy hand nudging him through the open screen and down the hall.

Evening sunlight pours through the single round window of his father’s den when Yamakaji enters, bright golden life cast on the floorboards. The room is never so small when Yamakaji practices here alone, but the walls seem to loom closer with Father present, his breadth and shadow so immense. So tall and imposing.

Yamakaji has rarely feared his father, but it is not so strange to imagine how others are made nervous by the fourth’s presence. At least when they’re allowed to know he’s there.

Pride is never far when Yamakaji thinks on his father, but now so great a warmth surges in his chest.  An irrepressible delight that forces him to bite his lip as he kneels on the floor, determined to keep leashed the pleased grin that wants to break free. Father would be curious, and Yamakaji just doesn’t know how to tell him that there is not another shinobi in all the whole world so strong, so _amazing_. He could try, but Yamakaji wouldn’t be able to in any way that Father would take seriously, the attempt more likely to be dismissed with a wave of his large hand than any pleasure taken from the words.

Even if Yamakaji could manage it, Father doesn’t seem to be in the mood. His stride isn’t so swift as usual, and he does not sit on his knees as Yamakaji does. Instead he rests fully on the floor, legs crossed before him. Even seated he is a mountain all himself, his shadow long in the evening light. “I understand that you and Suzukaze took a midnight stroll to Shirasagi not so long ago.”

To ever lie to his father is not a skill Yamakaji possesses. He does not even bother to try as uncertainty lowers his voice. “We did.” He’s not yet sure if apology is needed, so he doesn’t give one. “But-, but we were careful. No one saw us.”

Father’s elbows rest on his bent knees as he leans forward, calloused fingers folding together, “No one but Lady Mikoto.”

Is the queen angry? Is that why she'd come the day Suzukaze ran,  just to tell Father what they'd done?

Yamakaji can't help how his brows come together, or the way his lips twist into what his tutors used to insist was a pout. It _isn't,_ and Yamakaji has no reason to anyway. He-, he just doesn't understand why she would come all this way to bother Father over something so small. It doesn't make sense, not when she did not even scold them or refuse to accept Suzukaze's apology. "We didn't do anything bad."

One of Father’s brows lift, “Nor did you or your brother ask permission.”

A truth Yamakaji doesn’t have a real excuse for.

Father doesn’t give him a moment to try and make one. “Little fools,” he mutters, teeth shown as he glares towards the window. His hands unfold to clench separately atop his knees, knuckles pasty and white. "If anyone had become suspicious, for even a moment, especially so soon after-."

Cheve hangs in the air before him, in the height of his shoulders and the tightness of his fists.

He sits silently for a moment before turning his heavy eyes back to Yamakaji. “You would not still be alive. You or Suzukaze. No one would have waited to be sure it was children rather than an _assassin_ come to take the last holder of Hoshido's throne."

Yamakaji is familiar enough with his father's reprimands to know which are true and which are given only to appease some tutor or annoyed elder. There is a difference in tone, in Father's manner and attention. This doesn't sound like a true scold, but neither is he sure it is false. Not when he still doesn’t understand why there was a queen on his father’s land weeks prior.

He is not so foolish as to ask now, or to let pretended shame lower his eyes. Father would only be irritated at the dishonesty, and Yamakaji still isn’t sure if they did anything to truly be ashamed of. “He just wanted to tell her he was sorry.”

Father’s lips press thin, “Lady Mikoto does not have the time or attention to spend on the words of a child. Even if Suzukaze thought it necessary, _you_ should have known better.”

This is a scold then, even if one that Yamakaji doesn’t really understand. He doesn’t even want to, not when this clearly isn’t coming from Father. They didn’t even do anything _wrong_.

Yamakaji rocks up from the floor, his lips pulled back in imitation of his father’s snarl, “ _Fine_ , just tell her we’re sorry-."

“Did I say we were through?”

Father has not cuffed him in more than a year, but the snap of his voice stings just the same. Yamakaji sinks immediately back to his knees, shame cutting sharply through his anger. He bows his head until he can’t see Father at all, hands clenched in the loose fabric at his knees, “N-no, father.”

For a long moment they sit.

Father doesn’t speak, and Yamakaji almost can’t breathe. His fingers are clenched tight enough to grow numb, and his eyes almost begin to burn. He doesn’t want to cry, tries so hard never to be that weak, but he-, he doesn’t know what to do. The queen is angry and now _his father_ _is angry_ , and Yamakaji just doesn’t understand why. Not when he and his brother did nothing bad, nothing at all wrong. Maybe they should have asked Father, or at least told him when they returned, but that is nothing! Not really. They didn’t hurt anyone or wreck anything at the castle. They acted exactly the way a shinobi should, unseen by all but the one intended.

Why doesn’t that matter?

Why isn't Father proud of their skills, of the proof that Yamakaji and his brother will be the only shinobi the clan will ever need once they are older? Yamakaji would not even wait, would be one right now if Father let him.

But instead he is on the verge of tears as his father sits furious and silent, all for reasons Yamakaji just doesn't understand.

His lip trembles, and Yamakaji has to bite it for a moment before he can speak without fear of crying. “I’m sorry.”

He waits for the scolds to start again, but Father only sighs. Long and low, as if the mountain itself is pushing the air from his chest. He reaches, and Yamakaji tries so very hard not to flinch from his scarred hand.

He doesn’t succeed, but Father only thumbs away the wetness beneath Yamakaji’s eyes. “Never again,” he murmurs, palm warm and heavy when he cups Yamakaji’s cheek. “You must always tell me, even if you think I will say no.” 

Relief chills him, almost enough to make him tear up again, but Yamakaji just bobs his head in immediate agreement. His throat is still swollen and his gut is still so sour in shame, but Father has forgiven him. Nothing else matters. “I will,” Yamakaji manages as he starts to lift from the floor. He pauses almost immediately, and hesitates before forcing himself to meet Father’s eyes.  “Can I go?”

Father exhales heavily through his nose. He seems more tired than annoyed. “Not yet.”

Yamakaji rests back on his knees and lifts an arm to dry his eyes. Embarrassment heats his face at the necessity even though Father doesn't say anything.

He doesn’t say anything for a while.

Night was not so far away when they came inside but now the sun is nearly gone. Father’s shadow stretches farther than it did before and crickets chirp outside the window. There will be no training tonight. Yamakaji doesn’t even want to now. Father wouldn’t let him go either way, wolves never so daring as after dark.

Yamakaji might prefer them to his father right now. He-, he’s maybe been forgiven, and Father doesn’t even look mad anymore, but there is still something strange to him. Something that doesn’t let the tension in Yamakaji’s bones fade. It isn’t even the way he looks, nothing about Father unfamiliar. His eyes are always this sharp. Always stern and creased in burden, in weight wrought by the expectations of the elders, by duty to the throne. They are still the same now, piercing and forever heavy, though maybe Yamakaji has never seen them so softened. So touched with tire.

He’s never heard him speak so quietly either, “Your brother will be the fifth.”

Yamakaji does not breathe.

“You do not....understand,” Father continues, shoulders lowering in a quiet sigh, hands now lax on his knees. Still weathered and scarred, weapons as lethal as those that gleam from his battle gauntlets, but now slack. Loose and exhausted. “-but without this, without something to have, to aspire towards after…” Father passes a hand across his jaw, as if the words will not come.

Yamakaji cannot feel his body. Not the hard floor beneath his legs, nor the slack softness of the tunic clenched between his fingers with pale knuckled tightness. “…But-.”

“He must be Saizou,” Father says, again so stern. Sharp and commanding, as if they are at the dojo instead of home.  “This is not about your skill, Yamakaji, nor even about your brother’s. It is necessary, for his health.”

That-, how can that be? How can Father even think to be so cruel? “But he-.”

“Do not make this difficult.” Father must be as tired as his eyes insist, lids falling shut. “To be Saizou is a great honor, but you must not think that I-.”

Yamakaji cannot think, can still hardly breathe beneath the terror climbing his throat, denial ringing in his ear like funeral chimes. “You can’t,” he insists, leaning forward on his knees, determined to make his father understand, to make him see. “Father, please, he can’t be Saizou, he doesn’t-.”

"This is not your decision, Yamakaji." That the scold is not barked only makes this worse, as if Father has already resigned himself to this terrible path. To suffocating Yamakaji's brother whole beneath the clan's scorn. "Suzukaze will take the mantle-."

He can’t listen to this, he _won’t._ “You can’t do this to him,” Yamakaji insists again, every beat of his heart pounding in a desperate determination that he’s never before felt. "He will break!"

“He will do his duty,” Father snaps, his face twisted into a snarl more fierce than that of any wolf. “I expect just the same from you, even if-, Yamakaji?”

The floor is cold against his forehead, against his palms, but Yamakaji only presses harder. He can’t see his father, can’t even see the slats of the floor through a new haze of tears, returned shame forcing such terrible tightness to his throat. “I know he was bad,” Yamakaji admits, his voice cracked and trembling. “I know the clan hates him, a-and that you hate him-.”

“Yamakaji-.”

“And th-that he brought shame to your name, and that he brought shame to the mountain-.”

“Yama-.”

“And th-that the queen is mad, and that you-, th-that you don’t want him here anymore- ,” Father sighs but Yamakaji can’t stop, not when every word is pouring from him as rain does the sky. Not when he has to make Father understand, to make him realize that Suzukaze just can’t bear anymore. That he already has burden enough. “ –and I know the clan doesn’t want him here either, a-and that he let the king-.”

_"Yamakaji!"_

He is silent, Suzukaze's trangression burning the back of his throat. Yamakaji gives no more voice to their slain king, or to anything at all. He can’t, not with his throat this tight. This swollen and clenched in a fright he didn’t even know was growing. It claws at his chest and makes his gut so sour and sick. His heart beats so loudly in his ear, a terrored pace he has no idea how to quell.

Father’s sudden nearness only makes it worse. His hands take Yamakaji’s shoulders and pull him away from the floor, his grip so forever steady and firm. “Do you truly believe all that?”

Yamakaji wants to answer, to be good, to do what he must to keep his brother safe, but-, but he just _can’t._ His throat hurts, his stomach too, his whole body awash in the sort of fright he’s never known. His lip trembles every time he opens his mouth, and he isn’t sure he can answer without crying.

Father doesn’t make him try. “I do not hate him, little flame.” Father's arms are so strong, are steel wrapped in flesh. They lift Yamakaji effortlessly from the floor, as if he weighs less than wooden kunai. Father doesn’t let him down, but rests Yamakaji against his waist as he pushes to his feet. “I do not even blame him. Warriors far more experienced than you or he failed to see the signs."

Yamakaji’s eyes go wide. Was Suzukaze not the only one blind? “Wasn’t he supposed to keep watch?”

Father’s shoulders lift and fall in a heavy exhale as they cross the den, “He did not travel to Cheve as a shinobi, Yamakaji, but only as a companion to the king’s children. As you would have had you not been sick.”

Is that true?

Does-, does that mean his brother is blameless?

There is nothing more in the world that Yamakaji wants, that a boon he hasn't even had the courage to pray for. The Dawn Dragon would never listen to so impossible a plea. Would maybe even be angry to hear something so selfish, or to be prayed to at all from one with soiled blood.

But is his blood not actually soiled?

Has his brother done no wrong?

Yamakaji’s heart is beating so quickly again. A nervous hope forces him to ask things that he maybe shouldn’t, “If…if it wasn’t Suzu’s fault, then how did the king die?”

Father pauses long enough that guilt begins to crawl up Yamakaji’s spine. He knows better, he really does, but he has to be sure. Has to know without the slightest doubt that Suzukaze is blameless.

Father can’t hate him then, and neither can the clan.

Eventually they walk again, the darkness of the hallway swallowing the heavy tire of his father’s eyes. “Sumeragi was lost only through Nohr's devilry.”

“So Suzu didn't do anything wrong?"

"Nothing at all."

Yamakaji has to swallow past the heat climbing his throat, enough burn in his eyes that he hides them against Father's shoulder. He isn’t sad, isn’t even scared, but that doesn’t stop tears from making his father’s robe damp, "He th-thinks he did."

Father sighs once more, his head a heavy weight against Yamakaji's hair, "Is that why he ran?"

Yamakaji’s throat grows tight again. He doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t even know how to tell Father the real reason Suzukaze tried to leave. “…He thought you were mad.”

He can’t manage more, and Father doesn’t make him try.

Instead he just walks to the end of the hall and pushes back the curtain to Yamakaji and his brother’s room. It is just as dark inside, though the walls and ceiling feel unfamiliar from this height. But soon Father kneels, a tap of his finger all the prompting Yamakaji needs to undo his sandals when he is let down. He strips the outer layers of his tunic as well, clumsy and slow as so sudden a tire seeps behind his eyes. He's not sure why, when hardly an hour ago he'd been so set on testing his new kunai.

That eagerness seems so far away. Everything does. There isn't a single thing Yamakaji would rather do than crawl into bed beside his brother and shut his eyes.

He even tries, but Father lifts him again before Yamakaji can.

They don't go far. A few strides and Father again goes low, though he doesn't let Yamakaji pull away. Instead Father lays himself down in the bedding, Yamakaji tucked between his arm and side. Suzukaze is on Father's other side, his drowsy murmur cut off almost so soon as he makes the sound.

Father fills the silence. He turns towards Suzukaze and begins to speak of Cheve, of those lost and those that remain. His words are low, quiet rumbles that resonate where Yamakaji is pressed against the side of his chest. Suzukaze responds in that same quiet, enough so that Yamakaji can't really hear what he says to Father in the darkness.

Yamakaji can hear him cry though.

Short hitched breaths, the same misery that has choked him every night and day since Hoshido lost a king. Yamakaji can’t reach him, can’t even see him over the breadth of their father’s chest. He can only tuck down against Father’s shoulder and try to resist the returned heat of his own eyes, a burn that he hates with everything that he is.

He doesn’t have to resist long. Not when his brother’s cries fade moments later, Suzukaze’s misery made quiet under their father’s assurances of forever love.

\---

“Yamakaji.”

The midday sun is bright and harsh in his eyes when Yamakaji turns towards his father’s hail. He runs near when gestured, quick to follow Father beyond the sanctuary’s now open gates. There are no monks in sight, nor even any worshippers. The stone steps echo with the footfalls of none, his father so effortlessly silent while Yamakaji uses the opportunity to practice the same.

Birch trees flank them on either side of the stair. They look lonely even though they can’t be, the forest surrounding the sanctuary as full and thick as any other around Igasato. The flesh of each looks like flayed parchment, as if made from scrolls left to dry and crack in the noon sun.

They don’t look alive, even though a full canopy of green sways overhead.

They remind Yamakaji of his brother. Suzukaze is almost the same, pale like parchment and thin as these trees. He looks alive from a distance, but only until Yamakaji is close enough to see the dull gleam of his eyes and the quiet misery in his face.

That was supposed to change after Father took away the blame.

Yamakaji can’t understand why it didn’t. His brother woke this morning with the same dead eyes that he’s had for months, the ones that stare at the floor and grow red from tears shed and tears held. Eyes that used to crinkle in play and crease shut in laughter.

It’s been so long since the last time Suzukaze has laughed, or even smiled.

Yamakaji can’t really remember what his brother looks like happy.

“Yamakaji.”

Father is at the top of the stair, an expectance in his face that Yamakaji doesn’t understand until he realizes the distance between them.

The birch trees are at fault, but Yamakaji doesn’t say that. He just quickens his pace until his shadow and Father’s start at the same place.

The sanctuary sits further up the mountain than Igasato. Yamakaji has only ever been here on the new year, when colored lanterns and rice paper ribbons are strung along every shrine and flutter in the wake of spirit tamers. He and his brother used to pass the night on Father's shoulders, their fingers made sticky from hot cake skewers and sour apple taffy. From there they would watch fireworks light the far southern skies above Shirasagi Castle and wait for the new year chimes to ring.

They never actually made it to the new year. Yamakaji didn't, at least. Usually he'd wake on the way home, tucked against one of Father’s shoulders while Suzukaze slept against the other.

There were no fireworks above Shirasagi this year. Vendors didn't line the streets of Igasato with year-end treats, and the overripe scent of boiling sugar didn't waft on the evening breeze.

Hoshido greeted the new year with silence, and Yamakaji wishes he didn't know why.

The main shrine is as empty inside as the stair was. No one tends the Dawn Dragon, a marble statue just like the one in Shirasagi. It isn't anywhere near so large, but Yamakaji is still made nervous when he bows alongside his father.

He doesn’t need to be.  His blood isn't shamed, and never really was.

Still, Yamakaji doesn't meet the dragon's pale eyes.

Father doesn’t linger, his stride swift and long as he takes them into the depths of the shrine. His shadow grows longer and longer as they leave daylight behind. When it is almost too dark to see Father stops before a plain wall and presses both hands against the stone. Yamakaji blinks, and there is a crease between his father’s hands that he didn’t see before.

The crease becomes wider when Father fits his fingers in the crack and pulls each side away, as if the stone is no heavier than a screen. The air beyond is still and smells of rain. There are no torches, nor any lanterns. There is nothing before them but a narrow stair that Yamakaji can’t see the bottom of.

His stomach clenches cold. Uncertain.

Father doesn’t hesitate.

Yamakaji hurries again to his side and makes his own distraction from the chill, “Why couldn’t Suzu come?”

“He has errands.”

Only because Father gave him them. Father didn’t even tell Yamakaji what they were doing today until Suzukaze had already gone. “Couldn’t they have waited?”

Father is quiet a moment. As soundless as the fall of his feet. “To take this mantle is not just to take a name. You understand this?”

Yamakaji nods, “I must serve Hoshido by blade and by blood.” A shinobi’s creed, taught to Yamakaji and his brother by a grey-haired shinobi that used to watch them when Father was away. Yamakaji hasn’t seen her in many seasons now, and he’s not sure why. “I must ensure that Igasato prospers, that the blood of Dawn may never wither."

That is his father’s oath, a burden that today will be Yamakaji’s to share.

Father makes a sound and takes Yamakaji’s shoulder when the stair grows steeper, “That is what it is to lead the clan. To be Saizou is not always the same.”

Yamakaji can’t help his frown, “Why not?”

“Igasato existed long before a Saizou ever did.”

It’s too dark to see, but Yamakaji tips his head back anyway, “But I thought-.”

“They teach you differently at lessons,” Father says, “but Igasato has not always been tended by those of our blood.”

Yamakaji wants to ask why, but a sound catches his attention. A murmur, like the faint crackle of kindling being devoured by fire. It comes from beside his ear, but there’s nothing there when he turns. Just stone, unseen but damp when he reaches to touch.

“Father-.”

He is shushed, and there is light in the passage when Yamakaji looks forward. Faint light, only enough to give the last steps an unnerving gloom.

Where the stair ends, a large chamber awaits. Yamakaji assumes it to be a chamber but he can see no walls. Nor the ceiling. The light comes from far forward, where three lanterns slowly spin on thick chains. Each have a dark pane, all facing the same way. The lanterns move in a circle as Yamakaji watches. A slow circuit that throws a row of robed figures into shadows that sweep the floor like the hands of a clock.

Yamakaji has not held his father's hand in so long, but he doesn't resist even a moment when the urge strikes. Father’s fingers close around his own, warm and secure, but even he cannot relieve the chill working up Yamakaji’s spine. One that isn't lessened when he recognizes two of the figures as elders of the clan. There are five of Igasato, and only five figures before them, all shrouded in the same dark cloaks. Yamakaji cannot see their eyes from beneath the hoods, but he feels their judgment as one would rain not yet fallen.

There is that crackle again, like the hiss and pop of logs in a fire. But there is no fire to find, not anywhere Yamakaji looks. Not even a hearth, cold or otherwise. There is only the lanterns, rotating in the same silence with which Father walks.

All five elders bow when he and Yamakaji are finally near, but Father does not. Neither does Yamakaji, if only to see if he can get away with it.

The elders straighten without comment, and his father says nothing.

Yamakaji is far too unnerved to be thrilled.

“I apologize for the short notice,” Father greets.

Elder Keigo waves his words away, “There is no need.” She is recognizable only because of the dark lines that swirl around her fingers and the back of her knuckles. Ink, a dojo master once explained when Suzukaze had been curious, but Yamakaji still can't think so. Ink fades and washes from the skin. Even in the lanterns' low light the lines sweeping up the back of Elder Keigo’s wrinkled hand are bold and unchanged from the first time Yamakaji ever saw them.

He can't think she redraws them every day, but maybe that is the privilege of an elder. To waste time with a brush while Yamakaji’s father toils and bleeds in the dead of night.

Yamakaji’s hates the unfairness, but at least his father won't be alone anymore.

If Yamakaji is to be Saizou this day, surely he can be a shinobi too?

He would ask, but Yamakaji isn’t sure if he’s allowed to speak, and getting scolded by all five elders at once just isn’t something he wants to try.

Father’s thumb begins to sweep softly across Yamakaji’s knuckles. “Let us begin.” He is still so calm, firm in tone and quietly expectant, if rough in a way that makes Yamakaji wonder if Father actually got any sleep.

Yamakaji’s gut sours in a sudden guilt, though he can't figure out why. He didn't ask Father to sleep with them, even if he's still so happy that Yamakaji and his brother were given so much of Father’s time. He didn't ask to be made Saizou today either, but couldn't help but be excited when Father told him this morning.

That excitement isn't so easy to find now. Reluctance curls his toes, but Yamakaji ignores the uncertainty. He's ready to be Saizou, he _knows_ he is.

And-, and even if he isn't, even if a sudden dread is building in the pit of his stomach, Yamakaji will still be Saizou. He must. For his brother, for his father.

Elder Keigo holds still a moment, but then dips her head, “Very-.”

“I cannot be silent.” The elder that speaks is not one Yamakaji recognizes, not by his gravel voice or his pointed chin. He stands taller than Elder Keigo, and maybe even taller than Father.

Yamakaji does not like him.

Maybe Elder Keigo doesn’t either. Yamakaji almost gasps aloud when she throws her hood back in time for him to see her roll her eyes, “Have you even tried?”

Is one elder allowed to disrespect another?

Yamakaji doesn’t ask, but glances up at his father with wide eyes.

Father doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t seem surprised.

Nor does the tall elder. He does not look her way, but speaks as if addressing Father directly, “This cannot be allowed-.”

“You overreach yourself,” Elder Moro murmurs, his voice so low and slurred, as if he’d been woken from a nap only moments before. His shadow is larger than all the rest, and his dark hands are clasped before his stomach. “We are here to bear witness, nothing more.”

“Witness to a mistake,” the tall elder snaps, his own hood finally pushed aside as he twists to fix Elder Moro with heavily wrinkled eyes. “Let us assume for the moment that this child is actually the fourth’s firstborn-.”

A furious noise passes Elder Keigo’s lips and a snarl etches the lines of her face deeper. “Do you really think the fourth would risk breaking the covenant?” Shadow takes her when the dark panes circle around, but her irritation has never needed to be seen to be known. “We would never have been summoned if he was not _absolutely_ _certain_ that this was his firstborn.”

Father’s thumb stills and his grip tightens barely enough for Yamakaji to notice.

“Regardless,” the tall elder insists, frustration evident in the grit of his voice, “he is far too young-."

"War may not wait for him to be grown." A new voice, but Yamakaji isn’t sure who. Light returns too late for him to know which of the other two elders it was.

“So we risk upsetting the covenant?” The tall elder looks back to Elder Keigo and gestures towards Yamakaji, “We risk a child, untested? We-.”

“There is no _we_ ,” Elder Keigo sharply corrects.

The chamber is not so quiet then. Every elder but one begins to speak; a jumble of words and argument that echoes all around. They are like the pigeons that flock in the public gardens of Shirasagi, chirping all at once over the same heel of bread, the noise of one inseparable from that of another. Elder Moro’s words are a plodding drone while the tall one and Elder Keigo snip back and forth in rising sharpness. Yamakaji hears his name batted back and forth between them and feels shame each time. They must not think he’s worthy.

What if they’re right?

Yamakaji’s eyes start to burn. He clings to his father’s hand and turns to hide against his leg.

Father’s thumb starts to sweep the back of Yamakaji’s knuckles again. His hand is warm. And safe. And powerful and strong, and everything that Yamakaji must now be. Sometimes Father’s hand is even a comfort, but never for long. Already his grip slackens and his thumb stills. Father takes a single step forward, Yamakaji then hidden in his shadow. “He will be Saizou.”

The air crackles in wake of his words. The elders fall silent, and after a moment all bow their heads.

The hairs on the back of Yamakaji’s neck stand up. He is moved before the sensation can sweep his body whole.

Father walks him through the line of elders, until he and Yamakaji are both directly beneath the lanterns. There are lines on the floor, etched deep and dark into the stone. They might be writings, but made by characters that Yamakaji doesn’t know. His brother would, but Suzukaze isn’t here to read them.

Father never actually explained why.

“Are you ready?”

Yamakaji lifts his eyes and pauses at the sudden kunai in his father’s hand. The edge shines dully in the lanterns' light, but Yamakaji knows this blade to be one of Father’s sharpest.

He swallows. And then he nods. The elders are watching, but he tries not to care.

Father takes his hand and cuts a line down the middle of Yamakaji’s palm. Blood wells and his throat closes tight. Yamakaji tries to breathe past the sting, but he almost can’t do that when Father flips his hand and squeezes.

Blood runs down Yamakaji’s fingers and drips towards the floor. A whine builds in the back of his throat, but Yamakaji doesn’t let it free. He shows his teeth and his eyes burn, but Yamakaji is quiet, is as silent as he can possibly be.

One drop splatters against the floor as he watches. The lines seem darker all at once. More like scorch marks than etchings.

The shadows sweeping the floor go still.

So have the lanterns, when Yamakaji glances up.

Father exhales in a strange relief and lets him go free, “Good boy.”

Yamakaji tries to take pride in his father’s quiet words, to ignore the way his palm stings in the open air. He bites his lip and nods again, but his eyes still prickle. He doesn’t look at the elders, wouldn’t be able to see them anyway. The dark panes have halted in their direction, as if the lanterns too have decided to bear witness.

Yamakaji wishes they wouldn’t. He doesn’t want to be watched.

He doesn’t want to see his father cut a line on his own palm either, but it is done before Yamakaji can do more than suck in a startled breath.

Father’s eyes are gentle, his voice a murmur, “Steady now.”

That is the way of a shinobi. To be calm in spirit and steady in hand. To know reason in rage and readiness in rest.  Father is all these things and more, is more a shinobi than any other could possibly be. He…he is more a shinobi than he is anything else, but that is how Yamakaji must be now as well. If he isn’t…

If he isn’t then his brother won’t remember how to smile.

“Steady,” Yamakaji whispers back. He’s not, but that doesn’t matter.

When his father reaches Yamakaji reaches back. Father’s hand dwarfs his own, the sting so much worse when those large fingers clench tight.

So tight. Tight enough that Yamakaji accidentally tries to pull away. It _hurts_ , it hurts so badly, like hot coals are pushing right against his skin, but Father doesn't let him go. He even grips harder, and he might be saying something, but Yamakaji just can’t hear over the bellowing crackle in the air. Flames flare in the corner of his eyes and the floor below grows hot enough that he can feel the heat through his sandals. He-, he can’t even _see_ now. Not his father, not the blood dripping from their joined hands. His heart is a drum and his blood is on fire, his mouth is open and his throat is raw, everything hurts, _everything hurts-._

Father releases his hand, and Yamakaji can’t feel his body. “It is done.”

He can’t see. He can’t feel. He tries to speak and nothing leaves his throat.

Yamakaji falls, but hands grip his shoulders before he can hit the floor.  Father lifts him to sit on his arm, but Yamakaji's numb body just sags forward against his shoulder. There are voices coming near, but the only one Yamakaji can really hear is the quiet murmur spoken against his hair, “Well done, little flame.”

They move. Yamakaji isn’t sure which way. The voices follow, but the only thing clear is Father’s terse, _“Not now.”_

The voices don’t stop, but they don’t keep pace.

Yamakaji tries to speak again, but heat catches at his throat and chokes his voice. It’s a sudden warmth, a flash of hot denial that he can’t swallow past.

The heat spreads, billowing everywhere all at once.  It collects in his gut and burns in his chest. His blood must boil, and steam must be in his lungs instead of air. Yamakaji begins to pant, to suck in shallow breaths that do nothing to quell the heat in his chest. Everything burns. His eyes and his skin, his throat and where he’s pressed against Father’s shoulder. Feeling returns as a heavy hand strokes his back, but everything is still so hot. 

It takes three tries before he can make words between his breaths, "Am I the fifth now?"

"Not for some time yet.” There is humor in Father's voice that Yamakaji hasn't heard in so very long. He might be smiling too, but Yamakaji can't see. "You've a ways to go before there is any truth to naming you Saizou."

Relief barely cools the heat in his chest, even though it shouldn’t. He was supposed to lessen Father’s burden by taking his name, but Yamakaji just can’t imagine feeling like this every day. His feet are numb again, his hands too. He’s so thirsty, even though his arms feel like they don’t possibly have the strength to lift a cup. Yamakaji can’t even lift his head, or do a single thing but lay against his father’s shoulder as limp as a sack of rice, “I-, I thought-.”

“Later, Yama.” Father hikes him higher, and Yamakaji’s sight returns as they begin to climb the stair. He can see the elders in the distance, and the lanterns as they slowly spin overhead. “Just rest.”

\---

The minutes are either many or few by the time they reach home. Yamakaji can’t tell, can’t even remember a step of the journey back. Not the shrine or the rest of the sanctuary, not even the sway of flayed birch trees in the afternoon sun. It is only the familiar slide of the front screen that brings him back from the heated haze behind his eyes.

Father takes them first to the kitchen and pours from a pitcher without setting Yamakaji down. He doesn’t ask, but holds the cup out with a silent expectation that Yamakaji learned to obey before he even knew his own name. The water isn’t fresh enough to be chilled, but it still soothes Yamakaji’s throat. Only for a moment, but the relief is nice while it lasts. He almost drops the cup, but Father takes it before he can. There is a wrapping on Yamakaji’s hand that he only then notices.

The cloth isn’t stained, but Yamakaji can still remember how it felt when his flesh parted and his blood ran free. His breaths are shallow again. His sight dims. He-, he starts to shake. He shouldn’t be, _he knows better_ , but-, but Yamakaji is scared. Everything is strange, and his body doesn’t feel like his own. He’s done something wrong, something bad, something he doesn’t know. He wouldn’t feel like this otherwise, like there are flames inside his body about to burn him to ash and dust.

“Shhh, little flame.” Father is stroking his back again, and only then does Yamakaji realize that he’s crying.

He doesn’t mean to, never does. Yamakaji bites his lip and tries to breathe past the ache in his chest. Father asks what’s wrong, and it takes longer than it should to force words past his swelling throat. “It-, it hurts.” Yamakaji doesn’t know what else to say.

“It will pass,” Father assures. “Your body was not born to cage this power.”

They move again, but Yamakaji doesn’t watch. His head feels heavy. His eyes too. It’s too easy to shut them, to relax against Father’s shoulder and wonder what power he means.

He might fall asleep. Yamakaji isn’t sure, but the next awareness he has is of being lowered to the bedding in his and Suzukaze’s room. His eyes flutter open and he reaches before Father can move away.

His grip is weak. Father slowly uncurls Yamakaji’s fingers from his sleeve, “You must rest, Yamakaji.”

“You-,” Yamakaji has to swallow. His throat is dry and he’s thirsty again. “You said I would be Saizou today.”

“You will be Saizou,” Father says as he tucks Yamakaji into the blankets. It is difficult to resist the desire to sleep beneath so familiar a weight. “Today you were accepted into a covenant made five generations ago, by my father’s grandfather.” He means Saizou the First. A man of legend, the first shinobi to pledge allegiance to the blood of Dawn. He who culled the demon wolves and carved Igasato from the very rock of the mountain.

But no, that isn’t right. Father told him so, that Igasato existed before a Saizou ever did.

Yamakaji licks his chapped lips and tries to focus past the black dots speckling his vision, “What is a covenant?”

“Nothing you need worry on,” Father assures. “Neither this name nor this power will weigh upon your shoulders until I decide you ready.”

Relief chills him, but not as much as Yamakaji wants, “You’ll tell me then?”

Father snorts and sweeps Yamakaji’s hair back away from his eyes, “I will tell you when you are able to stay awake for the telling.”

That…that’s probably good. Father wouldn’t lie, and Yamakaji can barely keep his eyes open right now. “Okay,” he says, more mumbled than he means.

Father touches his hair again, a softness in his face that is rarely seen, “You have made your forefathers very proud today, little flame.”

They don’t matter. Yamakaji is too tired to pretend otherwise. “But what about you?” he asks, even though his voice grows more slurred with every word. “Are you happy?”

Father’s lips stretch wide. “Very happy, Yama.” He cups Yamakaji’s cheeks with hands too gentle to be the same ones that held him fast in blood and fire. “I could not ask for a more dedicated heir.”

Yamakaji isn't sure if he smiles back, or if he says anything else. He tries, but his eyelids are heavy and Father’s hands are cool against his heated skin.

\---

There is no middle ground between awareness and sleep. Yamakaji blinks awake and can feel again, from his fingers all the way to his toes. The blankets don’t fall away when he sits up, but are arced around him as if he shoved them back as he slept. His jaw cracks on a yawn and his body aches as he moves. Yamakaji is still hot, still thirsty too. His stomach twists in hungry irritation. All ignored as he falls back to the blankets to stretch, but… but there is a dampness beneath.

A moment, and Yamakaji is _horrified._

Shame cuts through his hunger like the sharpest blade. He scrambles out of the bedding with red cheeks and furiously clenched teeth. He can’t smell anything other than salt, but the spot where he laid is _damp_ , and _so is his tunic_ and…

And there is water on his arms.

Yamakaji stills in his embarrassment and frowns. It looks like water, at least. There is a sheen on the back of his wrist that looks just like Father's does when he's finished training. Yamakaji touches at his forehead and feels moisture there too.

Sweat, he thinks it's called. He can't be sure, but he's just too hot and hungry to really care.

The shame recedes and Yamakaji bundles the bedding to rinse later - just in case- and runs to wash himself of the maybe-sweat’s salty stench. Or, he tries to. Yamakaji makes it three steps before his sight goes spotty. He can't feel his legs again, and he can't take a full breath. Not until he's panted on the floor for two minutes and watched pinpricks of moisture bead on his arms.

Yamakaji is still on the floor when the front screen rasps open. He hears his brother say something and his father respond.

A struggle, but Yamakaji is on his feet when the curtain to his room is pushed open. He can’t look up yet, too busy bracing himself on his knees and breathing hard, but the size of Father’s feet are unmistakable. So is the rest of him when he kneels and takes hold of Yamakaji’s arms. “Well?” he asks, eyes sharp. “Any better?”

“Y-yes,” Yamakaji decides, even if he’s not entirely sure that’s true. He doesn’t really hurt now, but everything still feels on the edge of too much. “I…I’m hot.”

Father hums and straightens. He pulls Yamakaji upright as he does, “Give it a few days. This heat will not linger.”

_Days?_

Yamakaji must make some sound, because his father snorts and pats his head. “Steady, Yamakaji.” He leaves then, and takes the bundled bedding with him without a word.

Yamakaji tries to follow, but just can’t keep to his father’s pace.

It is a struggle to make the hall, a battle of heaving breaths and unfelt feet. He has to hold himself up on the wall and let black dots fade from his sight more than once. When he looks up after the second time Suzukaze is in the hall with him, a frown on his dirty face, “Yama?”

Yamakaji opens his mouth, but he can’t actually speak.

Father joins them before it becomes obvious, “Get washed, dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

Suzukaze looks up, his brows high, “You don’t have to cook, father.”

“Most of it is already made,” Father tells him, something like amusement in the depth of his eyes.

Yamakaji tries to offer to take over, but he doesn’t have his breath back before Suzukaze beats him to it. “I can finish,” he says, already turning as if to head to the kitchen.

Father takes his shoulder and holds him still before he can, “Everything is in hand.”

Yamakaji frowns, and his brother does the same. Their father already does so much outside of their walls, and he shouldn’t have to waste any of his energy on something so simple as dinner. Suzukaze must be thinking the same, because he tips his head back and tries to argue, “Father-.”

“I am capable,” Father says, though his voice is far from hard. He even touches briefly at Suzukaze’s messy hair. “You’ve done more than enough today.”

Suzukaze’s brow wrinkles, “I only delivered the scrolls you gave me.”

Father nods, “And far quicker than expected.”

It’s faint, but Suzukaze’s lips turn up almost enough to be called a smile.

Father pets his hair once more and tells them to wash again before turning away.

Suzukaze flashes an uncertain look Yamakaji’s way, but there’s nothing to be done but shrug and obey. They walk to the furo closet, but Yamakaji stumbles as they enter and has to catch himself on the frame.

Suzukaze looks over and frowns, “…What’s wrong with your hand?”

The wrapping is still there when Yamakaji looks. “Cut,” he says. He would explain, but Yamakaji just doesn’t have the breath.

The hand basin is already full, the coals beneath lit. The water isn’t very warm, but Yamakaji doesn’t need it to be. He strips his tunic and wrinkles his nose at the salty scent. The heat under his skin doesn’t go away, but each pass of a wet cloth makes it less felt. Or maybe Yamakaji is just learning to ignore it.

Can that be what Father meant, when he said it wouldn’t linger?

“Were you home all day?”

It takes a moment to actually understand Suzukaze’s words. Yamakaji heard, but he’s tired again. Drained, and by nothing more difficult than washing. “No,” he breathes, braced on the hand basin when holding himself upright becomes too much. “I…I wasn’t,” is all he can manage.

His brother looks at him strangely, and Yamakaji just doesn’t know what to say.

They leave their dirtied tunics on the floor and dress in nightclothes. The sun is too low to do otherwise, especially when it takes all Yamakaji’s energy just to dress again. Suzukaze waits for him to finish. There is a question in his face, but he doesn’t say anything. He just leads the way to their father’s den as Yamakaji again follows on stuttered feet.

There is a cabinet in the far-left corner, one filled with dishes and cups, platters and chopsticks. They haven’t been touched in months, not since the last time Yamakaji set out dinner for his brother and his father and waited up the whole evening with no one’s company but his own.

That won’t happen today. Not when Father is home, not when Suzukaze is here too.

Yamakaji smiles to himself and hurries to help.

A mistake. He must move too quickly, because his sight flickers dim again. He’s even dizzy, enough so that Yamakaji has to catch himself on the cabinet after fumbling three bowls to the floor.

Suzukaze picks them up, his violet eyes wide and concerned. He darts to the hall and is gone before Yamakaji can call him back.

Probably couldn’t of anyway. Yamakaji’s knees give out and soon he’s bracing himself against the floor on trembling arms. He’s panting again, and his sight hazes. Father is at his side a dozen breaths later. He might say something, but Yamakaji’s blood is rushing too quickly to hear. There’s a hand in his face though, and a cup of water. Father helps him hold the cup until the water is gone. Yamakaji wants more but he doesn't ask. Not when his chest is so tight again. Not when his throat burns. His eyes too, but Yamakaji blinks back the tears as best he can.

He-, he’s just so frustrated. _So angry._  

His father probably didn’t fall even once when he was made the fourth, or whatever it is that Yamakaji has done.

“There,” Father says, after lifting Yamakaji and setting him down before his writing desk. The top has already been cleared of his ink and scrolls, with tatami mats laid out. “Stay sat, Yamakaji. You’ll feel better after you eat.”

He leaves, and Suzukaze returns long minutes later with a full pitcher of water. He stares at Yamakaji with eyes that are still so dull and dead, “…Are you sick?”

Yamakaji pauses in his reach for the pitcher and bites his lip, “…I don’t know.” He doesn’t. What-, what if he feels like this because he is sick? Was the tall elder with the pointed chin right to think him unworthy? Is Yamakaji just not strong enough to be his father’s heir? Maybe that’s why he can’t move without feeling faint, why he is so heavy, so _hot_. 

What if Father’s wrong?

What if this heat doesn’t go away?

What if it burns Yamakaji out from the inside, until he falls to the floor with flames in his eyes and ash in his throat?

“Yama?”

“I don’t know,” he says again. His voice cracks. His hand shakes.

Suzukaze’s eyes are wide again. He steps close, but has to turn away when Father’s whistle travels the hall.

Yamakaji manages to fill all three cups with water by the time the smell of cooked meat reaches the den. He still shakes, but hides his hands down in his lap before either his father or brother enter.

But soon his trembles are forgotten. They can’t be otherwise when Father enter with his arms full, when Suzukaze follows laden just the same. They carry blackened riverfish and sourdough rolls, steamed broccoli and freshly blanched string beans. There are bowls of mounded rice and a pitcher of juiced soy so fresh that Yamakaji can smell it from his seat.  He can even see a plate piled high with pork dumplings, and another layered with catfish and cooked onions.

Soon it is spread across the writing desk, all within reach of Yamakaji’s hands, and more importantly his stomach. Father tosses a dumpling into his mouth immediately, unspoken permission for Yamakaji and his brother to then dig in.

For many minutes there are no words. Nothing but the sounds of crunched vegetables and the scrape of chopsticks chasing grains of rice. Neither Yamakaji or his brother touch the riverfish until Father rips it in two and puts a piece on each of their plates. It is only then that Yamakaji realizes that Suzukaze is actually eating. His rice is almost gone, and his plate is already cleaned of dumplings and beans. A favorite of his, now that Yamakaji has the attention to notice.

Not just attention, either. He doesn’t feel so tired, so ready to fall over and shut his eyes. His hands don’t shake anymore, and he hasn’t lost his breath since he began to eat. Yamakaji has downed at least three cups of water but he’s still as thirsty as he was when Father brought him home hours ago.

He…he feels better, even if the heat inside hasn’t banked in the least.

“Suzukaze.” Yamakaji looks up, even if he wasn’t the one called. Father glances at him briefly. “Did the skinners give you trouble?”

Suzukaze shakes his head and wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist, “No, but Borudo was acting strange.”

“Probably drunk,” Father grunts, irritation in his voice as he takes another dumpling, “Close the sanctuary for a day, and the whole village thinks they’ve a holiday.”

“The sanctuary was closed?”

Excitement makes Yamakaji speak before he realizes that maybe he shouldn’t. “We were there.” He isn’t used to seeing his brother this curious though, or this hungry. It is only after the words are out that he remembers that Suzukaze wasn’t allowed to come along.

Maybe that means he isn’t allowed to know either.

Suzukaze frowns at him before looking back at their father, “But you said it was closed.”

Father works his jaw for a moment, both Yamakaji and his brother regarded silently as he chews. He doesn’t seem angry, but Yamakaji can’t always tell anymore. “It was,” Father agrees through a mouthful of catfish, a pause taken to sip at a small clay mug. “And we were.”

“Why?”

Again, Father is silent.

The air feels heavy, and sudden nerves prickle across the back of Yamakaji’s shoulders.

“You must congratulate your brother,” Father finally says, looking at Suzukaze from under heavy brows. “It is not every day one is named the next Saizou.”

\---

Suzukaze's smile is not so rare anymore.

To make him eat isn't so much a chore either. The cook comes more often and prepares larger portions of fish and meat for their meals, and Father tells Suzukaze that he must grow tall and strong. That he must be his brother’s support and a shinobi of the same skill, even if he will not bear the Saizou name.

But even without burden and blame Suzukaze is still sad sometimes. He’ll go outside and stare away to the west with unhappy eyes and clenched fists. Yamakaji doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t know how to make his brother glad again those days, and just tries to train away the guilty frustration that tightens his chest. But even to train isn’t always so lonely anymore. Suzukaze starts to practice with his kunai again, and will usually race Yamakaji to the practice grounds behind the dojo. At home he is more like he used to be, and won’t run away every time Yamakaji tackles him. Father’s house echoes again with laughter and argument and the sounds of strife as they wrestle across the floorboards.

They aren’t made to be quiet, since there is no one else there to disturb.

Father is gone most nights, and often for many at a time. He hasn’t had dinner with them since Yamakaji was made his heir. He is almost like a ghost; someone rumored more than seen.

The covenant is not explained for many days, weeks after the last remnants of heat fade from Yamakaji’s blood. It happens in the late hours of twilight, while Suzukaze and the rest of the village sleep under a new moon. Father has only just come home, his battle gauntlets stained with blood and worse. The metal spurs that protect his shoulders are warped, blackened as if left too long in fire. They are warm to the touch as well, but Yamakaji doesn’t understand why.

Not until his fingers scald when he touches Father’s uncovered arm.

Of what he’s told so little does he understand. Father tries to make it plain, to explain the demon caged in the mountain’s might and the accord drawn between it and the first Saizou of name. But he’s just so tired. So weary. His words slur and his gloved hands are clumsy as he rubs Yamakaji’s burnt fingers with crushed lavender. His eyes flicker open and shut, as if he’s constantly forcing himself back from the claws of slumber.

Nothing is explained in the end, but Yamakaji doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to know. Father can tell him later, after he’s rested. After he’s eaten and washed and made this terrible heat fade from his flesh. Yamakaji tells him so, and just doesn’t know what to do when Father falls asleep on the floorboards.

He isn’t there the next morning. But that’s not really so rare.

Still, his absence is worse now that Yamakaji has his brother to notice too.

\---

"Do you think he'll be angry?"

Of course Father will be angry.

There isn't the slightest doubt in Yamakaji's mind. He doesn't say that out loud, but only to keep Suzukaze from sharing his apprehension.

"Maybe a little," he lies. It's impossible that Father won't be.

It is nothing small they intend, to make demands of their father with his own blades in hand. This may be the way of a shinobi, seen a month ago when passing through the cherry grove, but Yamakaji and his brother aren't actually shinobi yet. They might not have the same allowance as did the two shadows that struggled against each other in the light of a setting sun.

A duel, Suzukaze had told him as they'd watched from the cover of a willow. Yamakaji isn't sure how he'd known, but he isn't sure what gave his brother the idea to attempt the same with their father either.

There is no time to doubt this course though. Not when their father is finally in sight.

They mean to surprise him, but Father halts a dozen strides from the trees they've taken cover in and looks up in unnerving expectation.

How he knows is a mystery, but Yamakaji understands the folly of letting Father assume them to be anyone but themselves. He drops to the forest floor with a metal kunai already in hand, and hears his brother do the same.

“... Father,” they say together.

“…Boys,” Father returns, one of his heavy brows arched. “You both know better than to bare a blade without purpose.”

Suzukaze does not speak, and neither does Yamakaji.

Father’s other brow is as high as the first, “…I take it you are not without purpose.”

This is the time, the moment. They don't have to go through with this, not if they quit now. Not if they just sheathe these borrowed blades and accept whatever scold their father decides to give.

But then nothing will change.

Father will leave again, and maybe not be back for days. And when he does return he'll be so tired, just like he is now. Father might stand tall before them, broad in shoulder and stern in face, but there are lines around his eyes that grow deeper every day. His hair has continued to thin and it is rare that he comes home now without a new scar, a permanent reminder that someone was allowed to give him pain and make him bleed.

This is the time. This is the moment.

But it is not one to retreat.

Yamakaji finally speaks and his brother echoes every word, “We challenge you to a duel!”

The hill rings with their announcement, the echo far bolder than Yamakaji actually feels. He almost wants to take it back when Father’s eyes sharpen. He-, he doesn’t look mad, not yet, but Yamakaji knows they are toeing a _very_ fine line.

Especially when Father’s voice grits out on the edge of impatience, “And what is your cause?”

They are silent a moment, but Suzukaze finds his voice before Yamakaji can. “You…you have to stay home if we win.” Suzukaze is almost too quiet to hear at the end. He clears his throat and somehow finds courage, “Th-that is our cause.”

Father doesn’t come closer. He doesn’t draw a blade either. "...This is not a duel either of you can win."

Truth. Unfortunate fact, but neither Yamakaji or his brother lower their blades. No matter the quiet terror in his gut and the uncertainty climbing his throat, Yamakaji stands firm. He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to do battle with his father _at all_ , but-, but he has no choice. He and his brother both.

If Father won’t stay with them on his own, then they will just have to win the right.

They mean to at least, but just as they are about to charge Father drops his chin and starts to laugh.

Full and deep, he carries across the grass and echoes back off the trees like a rolling bellow of thunder. His wide shoulders shake and his eyes crease into dark crescents. Father doesn’t go anywhere near his strapped kunai. He doesn’t reach for his shuriken or the garrote wire harnessed against the inside of his wrist. He-, he doesn’t reach for a single weapon, or ready his stance at all.

He just laughs.

Yamakaji lets his arms go slack and shares an annoyed look with his brother.

Their father doesn’t laugh much longer. Soon his shoulders go still and the amused lines around his eyes and mouth fade, though not nearly enough to soothe Yamakaji’s pride.

Father moves near then and crouches before them, his large hands come to rest of the back of both their necks. “My sons,” he says, smiling so wide and true. “My brave little boys.”

Yamakaji’s lips twist before he can help it. “We aren't little.” He isn't, at least. But even his brother isn't so small anymore, nor so thin that he could be carried away like a reed in the wind.

Father’s lips stretch into a grin. “Whose idea was this?”

Yamakaji bites his cheek and tries to convince himself to lie.

Suzukaze speaks before he can, red faced and shamed, “It-, it was m-mine, father.”

Father’s grin softens and he tips forward to touch Suzukaze’s forehead with his own, “Did you truly expect I would cross blades with you and your brother?”

It is not the scold Yamakaji expected. This-, this is not at all what he expected.

“…You’re always gone,” Suzukaze says, eyes low and timid. He even reaches for Yamakaji’s hand the same way he did so long ago in Shirasagi. “I-, I thought that if we could…th-that if you saw…” His fingers clench tight, but Yamakaji doesn’t know how to help. He doesn’t know how to tell Father they miss him, that they want to see him more than minutes at a time. He’s not even sure he should. They might be Father’s sons, but that doesn’t mean they matter.

Not when Hoshido needs their father more.

“I saw,” Father murmurs, shifting his forever sharp eyes to Yamakaji. “I saw my sons act very bravely, and very honorably.”

Praise is never to be ignored but Yamakaji doesn’t want it, or to be called brave. He wants his father, even if only for a little while.

“Will you stop going away?” he asks, nearly as timid as his brother.

Father’s smile finally fades. He leans back, and his hands feel heavier. “…You know I cannot.”

Disappointment is bitter on Yamakaji’s tongue and sour in his stomach. He knows, _they both know_ , but-, but _still_ -.

“We don’t mean all the time!” Suzukaze rallies, his grip ever tighter as he lifts his eyes. “Just-, just sometimes. So you can sleep, and eat, a-and help us train.” Father tries to speak, but Suzukaze just talks right over him _,_ like he doesn’t even _care_. “It isn’t fair that you have to be gone all the time! You’re our father, and we want to see you too!”

Yamakaji almost drops his brother’s hand. His eyes are wide, his mouth dry. He-, he can’t believe Suzukaze said that, that he put their selfish wishes into the air for all to hear!

Father is quiet, but Yamakaji doesn’t dare meet his eyes. He doesn’t even look at his brother, made sick and uncertain as a silent shame claws at the back of his eyes. A terrible tension weighs upon his shoulders and his skin, almost as suffocating as smoke. He cannot be the only one to feel it, not when his fingers are made numb by his brother’s grip. There is nothing he can do to make it less, not-, not unless he denies Suzukaze’s words.

Maybe he should. Yamakaji could fix this, he could say that they don’t really need to see Father, that-, that they are happy as they are. He could apologize, or just hold his brother fast and run away, all the way back home, and not even have to face the simmering fury that must be lining their father’s-.

“I know,” Father breathes. He wraps Yamakaji and Suzukaze in his mammoth arms and turns down against their hair, his embrace so strong and swift. There is something terrible in his voice, a quiet misery that Yamakaji has never heard.

It makes his throat swell and his eyes heat.

“I know,” Father says once more, his words less touched with that nameless misery, “and soon you will have me back.”

“When?” Suzukaze demands.

Father shakes and pulls away enough that they can see the returned humor in his face. He’s laughing again and takes Suzukaze’s chin in hand, “And when did my little breeze get so bold?”

In a single second that suffocating tension is gone. Yamakaji can breathe and his hand is let free. Suzukaze crosses his arms and goes red in a shy embarrassment. “You could stay tonight,” he mumbles. “You could stay the rest of the week.”

Father shakes his head, but his smile doesn’t go away, “No, I couldn’t. Not right now.”

“Then when?” Yamakaji asks, made brave by his brother’s daring.

Father looks up at the forest canopy and sighs. Sunlight finds him and washes away the shadows that always bathe the lines beside his eyes. He still looks tired in such light. Weary, even drained. "In a while, when I get back from Mokushu." He drops his arms down to the back of their knees and lifts, both Yamakaji and Suzukaze then held aloft against their father's chest. "I'll take two days-."

"Father!" Suzukaze's scold echoes with Yamakaji's own, his violet eyes as sharp as Father’s, "You deserve more rest than that!"

"You should take a whole week," Yamakaji adds, excitement surging at just the thought of having their father all to themselves for such time.

"A week!" Father exclaims, his humor returned. "Surely the very mountain would crumble if I were allowed an entire week of rest."

“It wouldn’t!” Suzukaze protests, his voice so certain and strong, as if he has never known timidness a day in his life. “Igasato could spare you that long.”

“You’re so sure of that, my little breeze?” Father throws Suzukaze into the air as they move towards the house, lips turned up in a broad smile as he catches him on a shoulder. “Could our shinobi really manage for so long on their own?”

Of course they could, if they were worthy enough to be named full shinobi of their clan! Father must know that, laughter already rumbling through his chest when Yamakaji assures him so, “They have to! They do missions on their own, they could survive a week without you!”

“One would think,” Father responds, a murmur that is quiet enough that maybe he only says it for himself. “Nonetheless, a Saizou does not take a vacation while war spawns at his doorstep.”

Yamamkaji bites his lip, and sees his brother do the same.

“But,” Father says with a sigh, nudging Yamakaji’s forehead with his own, “I will take three days-.”

“Five,” Yamakaji tries.

“ _Four_ ,” Father amends, his tone firm enough to forbid argument, “and we'll even take a trip to the ocean this summer. Agreed?"

Yamakaji looks to his brother, and after a quiet moment they nod together, “Agreed!”

\---

They don't see the ocean that summer, but Yamakaji hasn’t the heart left to care.

Not that he is even Yamakaji anymore, the mantle of his father a sudden burden his shoulders just don’t know how to bear.

\---

Seasons pass. War ebbs and flows like the currents of a river.

When he is grown Saizou dwells in the shadow of a lord, and in that same darkness passes a single summer in the arms of a lover.

Soon after Saizou loses an eye, and years later he loses his brother.

Suzukaze returns in the way their father did not, but he is not the man that left. He is bruised. He is thin. His flesh bears no scars that will not fade, but his eyes carry an old dullness that has been unseen for many a year.

Saizou is recalled to their childhood, when his relieved embrace is humored for only a moment before Suzukaze pulls away. His brother is cold again, terse in word and reluctant to remain. He seeks the queen, and at that point Saizou is just in the way.

When Suzukaze leaves again he does not return alone, and Lady Mikoto dies short days later.

\---

At Jinya a stand is made.

At Jinya a deceiver takes the day.

Orochi falls, as does Yukimura soon after. Bodies lie strewn like fallen paper kites and groans of defeat carry on the wind.

Bereft of his lord, shaken in all but his duty; Saizou struggles one last time with the demon of his forefathers, the power granted by honor of his name. The air sparks in wake of his words as a rarely known heat swallows him whole. It sizzles white-hot behind his eye and something devastating coils in his chest like a tiger about to lunge. The cloth across his shoulders burns away in ash and smoke. Flames dance from his arms and strike forth from his feet, and the ground shakes as broken pottery rings around him like the chimes of a funeral.

Fitting, for death whispers in Saizou's ear and chokes him in unbelievable fire.

“ _Brother!”_

And there is Suzukaze, bright of eye and desperate in speech. He entreats, he begs and pleads, as if the course Saizou has set upon is one so easily turned aside. He doesn't know, has no idea the flames that scald Saizou's throat and lash ready to erupt in the clench of his fists.

Suzukaze has no idea, but in the end it doesn't matter.

His own death is nothing, but Saizou cannot pretend that his brother’s is the same.

And even if it was, even if Saizou could convince himself to burn the bright life from his brother’s eyes, the blood of Dawn stands beside him.

Lady Sakura is not his lord, but duty binds Saizou all the same.

His demon is smothered as a traitor swears ignorance, even peace. Saizou does not care. He watches his brother, and feels a part of himself turn to ash when Suzukaze takes him aside.

 _Do you understand_ , his eyes plead, and Saizou recalls what it is to be small and powerless in the face of a country's grief. To watch his own blood wither like a plucked flower in the noon heat. He remembers what it is to be Yamakaji, and for the world to exist no further than his father's pride and his brother's smile.

The world is not so simple anymore, if it ever truly was.

 _Be safe_ , Saizou finally returns, even if those aren't the words used.

Suzukaze’s lips spread in tired relief, gratitude spoken even though Saizou knows his refusal would not have mattered. 

They do not embrace. They trade no more words. A moment and Suzukaze hurries away in the shadow of a deceiver. He doesn’t look back, but Saizou didn’t expect he would.

The betrayal stings regardless. As does the knowledge that Saizou is choked by burden of his name, by obligation and oaths to a country that crumbles more with each passing day. Worse stings the surety that Suzukaze would not run alone if a different man stood where Saizou does now.  That Yamakaji would let fall the shackles of his duty and rush after the traitor taking advantage of his brother's decade’s old guilt. Yamakaji would rend skin and let blood, glory known in ending the pestilence that tore the very heart of Hoshido asunder.

But he is not Yamakaji. Not anymore

Instead he is Saizou, and so very alone.


End file.
